


Party Like It's 1776

by adjectivebear (HealerAriel)



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: AU S4, F/M, and Crane appreciating jean shorts a little too much, and fireworks, in which there are Jell-O shots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 19:35:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8257948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HealerAriel/pseuds/adjectivebear
Summary: It’s Crane’s first chance for a proper Fourth of July. The Mills sisters are on it.





	

**Party Like It’s 1776**

This slogan is printed on a T-shirt alongside a painting of the Continental Congress, into whose hands the large red cups Ichabod has come to understand as a visual shorthand for modern bacchanalia have been  _Photoshopped_.

“That is _highly_ irreverent.”

Jenny, who is wearing the offending garment, grins. “That’s kinda the point,” she says, handing him a tiny plastic cup.

Ichabod frowns at the gelatinous red, white, and blue mass within. He prods it gingerly. “What is this substance?”

“Jell-O shot. Bottoms up,” she says, demonstrating the procedure by whacking her own cup against the table before tossing its contents into her mouth.

Ichabod’s frown deepens. “Not that I don’t enjoy your confections, Miss Jenny, but if you recall the last time…”

Jenny laughs. “It’s _just_ alcohol, I swear. I’m in no hurry for another lecture.”

Satisfied that neither of them shall be incurring Abbie’s wrath, Ichabod mimics Jenny’s actions with his own Jell-O shot, coughing as his tongue is assaulted by the taste of vaguely fruit-flavored liquor. “Good Lord.”

Jenny swiftly produces another pair of Jell-O shots, which she insists they ingest simultaneously.

This is Ichabod’s first Fourth of July celebration with the sisters Mills, and they have vowed to provide him with the _theme park version_ of the holiday, to which, Jenny explains, these Jell-O shots are absolutely integral. So too, it would seem, are frayed denim trousers cut so short as to barely conceal a lady’s charms, cooking outdoors (of which Agent Foster has assumed responsibility), adhering rigidly to the color scheme of the American flag in both dress and foodstuffs, and the music of an artist called Daddy Yankee, whose moniker suits the holiday perfectly, though the gentleman himself appears to be a Spaniard.

It is the latter to which Ichabod and Jenny find Abbie dancing in the kitchen, her hips swiveling distractingly in those absurd trousers as she piles red and blue berries into a pie crust.

She laughs as Jenny pulls a tray of Jell-O shots out of the refrigerator. “Y’all need more already?”

“It’s not the Fourth of July unless you’re hammered,” Jenny says seriously. “It’s an American tradition,” she adds, handing Ichabod two more shots, which he accepts readily, if only to occupy his hands with something other than the boorish itch to grasp Abbie’s winding hips.

“Franklin would have wholeheartedly approved,” he says, looking pointedly elsewhere as Abbie bends to place the pie in the oven.

Honestly, how those trousers are considered appropriate in mixed company–

He consumes both Jell-O shots in rapid succession to divert his thoughts.

“That’s the spirit!” Jenny crows.  
  


* * *

  
“This is most bizarre.”

Abbie shushes him good-naturedly. “Just let it happen.”

The food has been eaten, the Jell-O shots and a variety of beers have been consumed, and now he, Abbie, Jenny, and Agent Foster are perched atop a blanket on a hillside near the house to observe the customary fireworks.

“But it is _nonsense_ ,” Ichabod insists. “By what logic was it determined that the celebration of our nation’s independence ought to be coupled with a gaudy display of Chinese pyrotechnics?”

Agent Foster sighs. “ _God_ , you’re a fun drunk.”

“I am _not_ drunk,” Ichabod responds automatically, though he will admit to himself that the veracity of that statement is… questionable.

“I can fix that,” Jenny says, her offer accompanied by the sound of ice being displaced in the _cooler_ sitting beside them.

“No,” Abbie says. “He’s fine.”

Jenny shrugs, declaring, “More for me.”

The other spectators on the hill erupt in cries of delight as a particularly colorful display fills the sky.

“You people are fascinated by the strangest things.”

Abbie laughs. “You are a _giant_ killjoy.”

Ichabod opens his mouth to protest, then closes it abruptly when she loops her arm through his, laying her head on his shoulder.

“It’s okay, though. You’re _my_ giant killjoy.”

And Ichabod cannot quite find any more words, his heart fluttering wildly as he rests his cheek against her curls.

Perhaps this tradition has its merits, after all.


End file.
